'It was recovered and is back right where it always was, Miss Sink.'
'Doesn't matter. It was stolen. Right out from under us like a rug. An entire iron fountain, and nobody saw a thing. So much for eyes and ears.' She dug in a pocket and pulled out a tissue. 'Not to mention rocks thrown at gas lamps and cars. Most of my friends and family are in Hollywood Cemetery.'
Miss Sink dabbed her nose and gave Hammer's ugly little dog the fish eye. She opened the newspaper to see what else was going on in the city. The headline above the fold stood up in huge black type:
Hammer snatched the paper out of Miss Sink's hands.
'Excuse me," Miss Sink said indignantly. 'That was rude.'
Hammer didn't give a shit. She read the story, incredulous. It even included an artist's rendition of the little blue fish that were suspected, according to the article, to be the carrier of the virus.
'Oh God. So it's hit New York, too,' Hammer said as she read. 'It's everywhere. That goddamn Roop. The media doesn't care. This is only going to make matters worse, rewarding some hacker with front-page news. Oh great, great, great. Whatever happened to people trying to work together? When I was getting started, you could plant a story with the local media and they would run things that would actually help the police.
'But can you imagine such a thing happening now?' Hammer- went on. 'Does it ever occur to self-serving people like Roop that when we can't do our jobs, he suffers too? What happens when his airbag is stolen?'
'I've read about that. Why do you call it CABBAGES?'
'What happens when he's robbed at gunpoint at an ATM?' Hammer went on.
Those are awful,' Miss Sink said with a shudder. 'I see they had another one yesterday. Of course, look how early it was. People have no business getting money out of machines at night when nobody's around."
Popeye lunged again. She got up on her hind legs, dancing about, front paws held out as if she wanted to hug Miss Sink. It made no sense.
'What's wrong with that dog?' Miss Sink said. 'It's like she's trying to tell me something.'
'Popeye is very intelligent. She's intuitive. Frankly, she knows so much it scares me,' Hammer confessed.
'And for the record,' Miss Sink went on, 'I think ATMs and the Internet are the 666 in Revelation. The beast leading up to Armageddon.'
Popeye jumped at Miss Sink again. Popeye growled. She hopped over to Miss Sink and tried to hug the old woman. Miss Sink smacked the newspaper against her hand as a warning. Popeye darted behind her owner's legs, wrapping her leash around them. She was shaking.
'It's all right, little baby.' Hammer was distressed and furious.
She squatted and put her arms around her dog and held her close. She gave Popeye another treat.
'Please don't do that again,' she said sternly to Miss Sink.
'Next time I'm going to smack her little bottom,' Miss Sink promised.
'Actually, you won't,' Hammer said in her dry don't fuck with me tone of voice.
That dog's going to bite someone,' Miss Sink chastised Hammer. 'You wait. And then won't you be in Dutch? These days people sue just like that.' She tried to snap her fingers and missed.
Popeye growled.
'Well, I've got to go in and call all the other board members. I guess telling you is the same thing as calling the police,' Miss Sink said.
She headed back down her walk, her feet loud on her Doric porch, her cat darting out from behind a hedge.
Chapter Eighteen
Despite Bubba's incredible efforts, no matter his eight.straight hours of relentless work in Bay 8, his productivity had fallen short by 3,901 cigarettes. He was devastated. It was the last night of the competition of the month, and the second month in a row that Bay 5 had claimed victory.
'Don't take it so hard,' Smudge said.
'I can't help it,' Bubba replied despondently.
They stopped outside the cafeteria and Bubba inserted his ID card into the cigarette machine, selecting the free pack all workers got daily. Bubba chose his usual Merit Ultima. Smudge did, too, and sold his pack to Bubba at the slightly discounted price of eight dollars and twenty-five cents. Smudge smoked Winstons, which were not made by Philip Morris. For the first time it bothered Bubba that Smudge didn't offer his daily allotted pack to Bubba for nothing, since it cost Smudge nothing. It bothered Bubba that it just so happened that Smudge and Gig Dan played golf together.
'I guess Gig had a long day,' Bubba commented as he and Smudge headed out of the building.
'He looked pretty tired when he left,' Smudge agreed. 'Too bad you were so late.'
'Wouldn't've been if that asshole Tiller wasn't supposedly sick again.'
Smudge made no comment.
Funny how he always gets sick on the night the competition ends,' Bubba made another casual remark.
'Maybe losing is something he can't face,' Smudge suggested.
'Also funny how nothing in my module works worth a shit the last night of the competition. Know how many times the tipping paper broke? Or how many glue bubbles I got? Had a dull knife, too. So I clean up right before shift change, and find dust in the machine and glue balled up on the glue roller,' Bubba said.
Smudge stopped at his gleaming red Suburban. He got out his keys.
'See, I think someone gets to Kennedy on first shift and sucks him into the conspiracy. So Kennedy works the first half of second shift because Tiller's called in sick, because he's been told to. Then Kennedy fucks up everything he can so when I'm supposed to come in and work one and a half shifts, I've got all this dust, glue balls and shit waiting for me.'
'Sounds rather elaborate, like a spy thriller. Don't be paranoid, Bubba.' Smudge patted Bubba's shoulder.
But it wasn't just paranoia. Bubba wasn't stupid. He knew Gig Dan was involved in the plot as well or he would have said something to somebody about how dirty the machine was. He had to have known, since he inadvertently had to fill in for Bubba because Bubba was late being early and then ended up late for being on time because Fred held him to a conversation. Bubba kept his conviction to himself as he began to see just what Smudge was really made of. Whatever it was, it was beginning to stink.
'You owe me and everyone else in Bay 5 two cases of beer, good buddy,' Smudge said as he cranked the Suburban.
'Yeah, I know,' Bubba said. 'What will it be?'
'Hmmmm. Let me think,' Smudge jerked Bubba around. 'I guess Corona.' He added insult to injury.
Corona was not a Philip Morris product, and Smudge knew Bubba would rather eat poison than spend a nickel on anything not Philip Morris.
'Okay, but you gotta give me a chance to get you back,' Bubba said.
Smudge laughed. 'Lay it on me.'
'Tomorrow night. Highest score. Let's raise the stakes higher, more than two hundred dollars," Bubba said.
Smudge's face lit up as he lit up a Winston.
'You're on. Rain or shine,' Smudge said.
Bubba thought of the leak in his Jeep and everything else Muskrat had to say about it. Bubba tested Smudge one more time this morning.
'You want me to drive?' Bubba said.
'We'll be better off in my hunting truck.' Smudge said exactly what Bubba anticipated. 'I'll drive, you can pay for gas. Meet me at my house.'
Brazil was watching out the window for West's unmarked Caprice, and every other minute, he ran back to the bathroom and wet his fingers and ran them through his slightly gelled hair, giving it that wet look, making sure one strand fell down the middle of his forehead. He had brushed his teeth four times and couldn't stand still.